by Amarie Avant
Jessica Watkins Presents
An Alpha’s Desire
by AMARIE AVANT
Copyright © 2017 by Amarie Avant
Published by Jessica Watkins Presents
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Quick note from the author:
My greatest hope is that Daniel and Desire’s store clears your mind and makes you feel so, so good. I don’t have a playlist, although there are several songs mentioned throughout the book. The key for this entire story is “Feel Like a Woman” by Mary J. Blige. If you haven’t heard of it, the song embodies how all women should be treated by their man. MJB never disappoints. Every word of that song gave life to “An Alpha’s Desire,” and just listening to it had me in my element the entire time I wrote this story. That being said, Ladies and Gentlemen, enjoy.
~ Amarie
Prologue
DESIRE TAYLOR
Sea salt mist coats my roasted caramel skin tone and the string bikini leaving nothing to the imagination. But it’s just Daniel and me. The deep blue sea surrounds us from all angles. Not a palm tree, white glittery sand or lush landscape in sight.
I’m on the top deck of his super yacht. A glass of champagne adorned with raspberries and strawberries is in my hand. The colorful arm floating devices Daniel purchased and blew up himself—as a funny gift— have been deflated by none other than my talon-like stiletto fingernails, and are in a heap on the floor. Daniel knows good and damn well that I don't swim.
Daniel is on the bottom deck, his hair an unruly golden halo, his skin the darkest shade of gold. His wetsuit clings to muscular calves and legs. It rides low on his hips since he hasn’t pulled his arms into the sleeves and zipped up fully. Sprinkles of water are sprayed against the strong, muscular planes of broad chest and shoulders as he does his best to interest me in snorkeling.
“Come down here, Desire.” A lazy smile crosses his thick lips when he looks up at me, as if I’m dessert and he’s mentally determining just how he plans to eat every one of my curves.
Though his smile is enough to make me lose my mind, I shake my head. “Sorry, can’t do. You know I don’t swim.”
“How could you resist?”
I glance at the wolf sideways. He was always good at playing nice when he wanted something bad enough.
“Desirenda, should I have you go find your paddle?” He licks his lips. Though partially jesting, a dose of lust clouds his face.
My mouth is set up to tell him off. Firstly, I’ve told Daniel a hundred times, if he couldn’t spell my full name, then he could only call me Desire. Funny thing is, the first time I argued about it, he sounded out my name, used his index finger to write the letters in the air while spelling it correctly. I had lied—a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.
But his handsome face contorts when I don’t readily argue. We are the tit-for-tat type before fucking, so he is probably wondering what’s wrong. My ears are perked.
“Daniel, come here,” I implore.
I am not a weak woman, but in this instance a lump forms into my throat, and I cannot respond to the worry flashing on his face.
“Des, what's wrong?”
I pick up the remote, and turn up volume on the the flat screen which is bolted to the top deck.
Two steps at a time, Daniel climbs the staircase. He is by my side in seconds. My heart has caved. His drops. We glower at the special news report.
“Just two years ago, Wentworth Daniel Rutledge the III was forced into the placement of CEO of Titan Aerospace, the umbrella corporation for the commercial Titan Airlines and private Titan Jetways, due to his grandparents’ untimely deaths. The company was founded in 1936 by the Rutledge dynasty. And what a powerful dynasty they are. The Rutledge reign are often revered to and unfortunately compared to the Kennedys in prestige and tragedy. The Rutledges have withstood the death of Daniel’s father, Wentworth Rutledge the II and the suicide of his mother, Celine, while he was still a young boy.”
Another caster jumps in, “Daniel, it appears, has exceeded expectations about Titan Aerospace after his grandparents who adopted him died in the spring before last; Wentworth Rutledge the First to pneumonia. Some would say, his wife, Marilyn, who succeeded him died of a broken heart soon thereafter.”
Daniel’s strong, broad chest deflates as a picture of his cousin pops onto the screen. She’s in a coal-colored suit, hair in a severe, tight bun.
The primary caster states: “Here, we have Daniel’s distant cousin, Rebecca Rutledge-Christly who we’re told owns a trivial amount, not even equated to .001% of the forty-five billion dollar empire, Titan Aerospace. Mrs. Christly is exiting the Superior court in Los Angeles to challenge Wentworth Daniel Rutledge III’s status to Titan Aerospace.”
The scene changes, and the talk turns toward the extent to which Titan Aerospace stock has steadily increased over the past two years as the newscasters, though knowledgeable in regard to the business dynamics, are not fully aware of Rebecca’s reasonings to test him. Nobody tests Daniel Rutledge, not even his board members, some of which consider him an asshole. They don’t have enough clout to ever dissuade him and they have more ties to the Titan Aerospace than Rebecca.
My fucking heart is numb.
Despite all I have done to push Daniel away, and my initial belief of him as a man whore, my entire heart belongs to him. Yes, he’s the laundry list of every woman’s dream: handsome, comedic, wealthy, spontaneous, intelligent. Damn, I keep reverting to such a trivial list, but those are just characteristics. He is the air that I breathe.
Every instant we touch, fireworks ignite throughout my body, but not in this moment. In my state of numbness, I’m not aware of any sensation at all. Daniel takes the remote from my grasp and turns the channel. Two, four, five, nine…every major news network is covering the shots fired by Rebecca Christly, showing her sauntering out of court.
“What makes this lady, barely related, barely blood, think she can take Daniel’s company from him?” one of the more outspoken news anchormen argues.
They all crave the truth. How did Rebecca Rutledge-Christly have the audacity?
We know. Wentworth the First was a twisted motherfucker. His will had an ironclad clause. Within the clause indicates that his grandson, Daniel, cannot engage in an intimate relationship with a woman outside of his race. Fuck the caveat, Daniel’s attorneys are exhausting all resources to figure out how we can marry and not have Titan Aerospace handed over to his next of kin…
I close my eyes tightly, and bite my bottom lip. The heat permeating against my skin no longer comes from the sun. Daniel’s blood is boiling. Then the television goes off. Save for the water lapping against the side of the yacht, the silence is deafening and I’m too in shock to comfort my man.
“What a fucking bitch!” He tosses the remote in his hand. A cascade of glass from the sliding door crashes to the ground.
Shit, I have gotta put him first…I love him enough to put him first. My heart is literally breaking away from my chest cavity. Daniel turns toward me, his arms wrap around me, one hand claiming the back of my neck, the other thick strong arm dominating my tiny waist. We are a team.
We were a team, up until this point.
“Daniel, it’s time for us to call it quits,” I hear myself tell him.
Desire
One Year Ago …
Try sitting at a bright-red stop light for the better part of forty or fifty precious seconds waiting for it to turn green. Not blinking. Anxiously waiting because you're already late to work, and the damn thing must turn green sometime, right?
Wrong.
I was wound so tight that I honestly expected the stop light to change color so I could speed like crazy to get to work on time. I ended up getting honked at, and that was almost an hour ago. The kicker is, my latch-key, model home is less than twenty minutes away from my job.
I press the radio button of my Audi S5 Coupe and dial my supposed best friend, Lauren, who is the sole reason I’m late to work. The call rings and rings while I angrily attempt to place my strawberry protein shake into the cup holder, hitting the edges of the holder. When the voicemail comes on, my shake goes tumbling to the floor.
“Fuck,” I screech. Light-pink bits of drink go spattering all over the dashboard and in the passenger seat.
I hang up. The wheels of my tires screech over the glossy cement under the parking structure in Downtown Los Angeles. The sound of the exhausts causes the businessman getting out of his import to jerk his shoulders, and he glares at me as I coast along the pathway.
I score a rather close parking spot, pull down the visor and tussle my short bangs in the mirror. I keep my hair relaxed, cropped short or tapered. A cute wave or curl or however my hairstylist determines to do the short hairstyle is just enough for me. As a child, I had long, thick hair. As an adult, I have yet to determine the necessity for it.
I get out of the car, and brush a hand over my simple black fitted sheath dress. It couples with the bold, gold statement jewelry that brings out the flecks of copper in my dark eyes.
Mouth pursed, I glare at the splashes of light-pink shake beginning to dry in my car. I press open the side compartment and pull out a few baby wipes. It’s 9:04; there’s not much time to clean. It’s going to be a sticky mess. Then I grab my purse and head to the elevators.
ELITE. The sign is all chromed out, right outside of the blue glass door. Elite is an events planner which holds contracts from corporate events to celebrity bashes, and for the lower level event planners on the come up like me, birthday or retirement bashes for people who will most likely never splurge again.
It's 9:13 am. By rich, white people standards, I’m late. My assistant is standing just inside the lobby with a bag of assorted Danishes and muffins from Panera Bread and a four-pack of coffee.
“Thank you, Lacy.” I place my leather folder down and grab the goodies Lacy had to squeeze in time to purchase this morning. This will be my “reason” for being late.
“No thanks needed.” She whispers the next part, “Mr. Kroger wants to meet with you right now. He said something about your first celebrity.”
Thank you, Jesus! I almost smile while heading down the hall. Kroger hasn’t paid me much attention, but I must’ve wowed him with my last midlevel client who had a $25,000 price tag for his daughter’s sweet sixteen. Impressing my boss, Mr. Kroger is very difficult. Regardless of my education and knack for transforming an event into a next level opportunity, my boss has always had it out for me. I got the job due to his fondness for my great-aunt, Azalea. A woman who is so far out of his league, it isn’t even funny.
My gold, stiletto booties almost clump over each other as I meander around the corner. Just inside of the glass walls of Mr. Kroger’s office is the boss of all bosses, Vera Chun, the owner of Elite.
I almost cringe. It’s damn near eighty degrees outside already and Vera is dressed in the most lustrous satin coat with chinchilla trim. Her back is to me, but her chin is high as the sky.
“Well, here is Miss Taylor. Oh, you’ve made a coffee run?” My boss, Mr. Kroger rises. Though he sounds thoughtful, he cuts his beady blue eyes at me. Damn, my boss knows that Lacy did the legwork and I chalk it up as my excuse.
Vera’s dark gaze glances at the bag in my hand. “The last person that offered me carbs is no longer with us.”
Duly noted. I open my mouth to great her, but Vera talks first.
“Mr. Kroger,” Vera’s narrow eyes turn away from me, without so much as an answer, “where is Taylor? It would be a disservice to our company to pay our event planners to do mediocre things, to include bringing you coffee and crumpets.”
He almost starts to stutter. “Well, well, this is Taylor, Desire Taylor. The one I plan to wow you with on her impeccable skills. We have a celebrity birthday coming up and I think adding her to the rotation of—”
“Don’t think. Know. You must know. And I know that she isn’t ready. Kroger, I’ll see you on Friday evening.” Vera rises, doesn’t even regard me with a look before stepping out.
Mr. Kroger sinks into his chair. Rubbing a hand over his face, Kroger asks, “Do you like your job?”
“Yes,” I reply, licking my lips in apprehension.
“Do you have any desire to keep said job?”
I nod.
“After my meeting with Vera on Friday evening, I’ll expect to be going to dinner. Do you know who I expect to attend as my date?”
My heart deflates. Why do people crave what they can’t have?
He reiterates, “Do you know who will accompany me to dinner?”
“My aunt, Azalea,” I mumble. He smiles.
###
Around lunchtime, I pull out of my designer heels and into a pair of Nikes. Elite is less than a mile away from Azalea’s office. Before begging and pleading like a nineties R&B singer, I need a slower pace, and a dose of hazy, LA air. The sun is soothing as I work the words in my head, meandering toward her office on the third floor of a plaza that includes three dental offices, a law firm, and one of the most sought out plastic surgery offices. The door to Azalea’s is conveniently marked as a tax service, no additional information.
I ball my fist, prepared to give the rhythmic knock, but the door opens. None other than The Madame, herself, is standing before me. Azalea is a natural beauty. She’s the color of fresh ground coffee, and her long, snow-white hair skims just past the collar of her magenta silk jacket. She places a hand on her hip. “My beautiful niece, what brings you by?”
“I just wanted to chat with my favorite aunt.”
“I am your only aunt, sweetheart.” She cocks her head and I enter. The door is closed and locked.
Inside of the office is all pristine white milk glass vases and diamond chandeliers. There are two desks, one for herself and the other for her executive assistant, Whitley, who should’ve answered the door.
“You need something from me, I need something from you.” Azalea floats away with grace. “Sit down.”
I sit across from her heavy, royal blue lacquered desk.
“Not there, darling, recline in Whitley’s seat. It will be yours for this entire afternoon.”
I do a double take before walking around the desk to claim the proper chair. “Auntie, what do you mean the entire afternoon?”
“Don’t let the flawless face fool you.” She bats her long eyelashes. “Desire, you have a request, I have one too. Mine will require your staying oh, until four or so.”
“But…”
“No buts. If Kroger so much as looks at you funny, tell him to call me.” Her tone ends on a delicious drawl. Azalea pauses for a moment, then she wags a finger in my face realizing he's the reason for my visit. “Oh, hell no! Your request can’t have anything to do with that pig of a man! What does Kroger want now?”
I speak quickly. “I ruined a meeting with Vera Chun and made the two of us look bad. Aunt Azalea, let the man buy you dinner and I can keep my job.”
“Keep? I got you that damn job! Hell, you should be sitting in Kroger’s seat!” She sits back with a huff. I had planned a few of her mistress’ “wine spritzers” in the past which allowed them to meet potential m
ates. The parties were enough to get my foot into the door, but with Azalea’s name behind me, Kroger wanted more. More of her.
Grumbling to myself, I cut into my aunt’s ranting and ask, “All right, what would you like me to do?”
“If this phone so much as rings, you answer it.” She points. “There’s a list with all of my important clients who are entertaining.”
Nodding slowly, I glance at the list. There’s a difference between being rich and wealthy. Azalea is too lazy to take any ol’ body’s money, but she will take a rich man’s money. Only the wealth and affluent are important. There are five rich-as-sin men who are traveling the world with one or more of Azalea’s mistresses. My gaze stops on the itinerary for Wentworth Daniel Rutledge III. He’s in Quebec with his longest running pet, Jada. Just for the night. They usually travel to Belize, or some island. She prefers to vacation on the islands. His others are more diverse, choosing the standard France, Italy, and Japan for their first few quests.
I loathe this man. At least the rest of them have the common decency to show their faces to their mistresses. No, he must act like James Bond or better yet, keep them out of the limelight.
Besides, he is only thirty-three, a few years older than my twenty-nine. So, the little player is probably shopping engagement rings—no, designing. He is designing the perfect engagement ring for a childhood sweetheart, or some daft blue-blooded woman for everyone’s eye to see.
Around 2:30, my cell phone vibrates. Just the chick I need to speak with. Lauren gave birth to my godson, Riley, when we were in the twelfth grade. Last night, I had called to offer to take them to dinner since a potential client saw me late in the day near Inglewood. Only twelve-year-old Riley was home, with three frozen burritos. We went to John's Incredible Pizza. Then we played a bunch of the games there because his mother’s cell phone went straight to voicemail. Lauren still hadn't gotten home from her date when I decided to drop him off at ten pm. So, he spent the night with me and I took him to school this morning.
